Give me the smokey, the free, she says,crossing to the dresser stackedwith rum, rye, beer, pineapple, ice. We're lightor scenery she moves with her eyes.Lots of ice, please, she says,in my highball. She's about to sit down.

She chooses the divan, well, I have nodivan, it's an extra bed and wool blankets,a pillow or two. A tick swelled in my foot,the size of a blueberry. She wagglesa white pump. This one.

I'm stung, the beauty of this spot.I think I'm from here, pause. Say,is one of you fellas my father? Hereshe laughs. Take it easy, boys. I don't mind.She laughs, rocking her shoulders back. When still,her body ripples. Our breathdoes what hers does.

Listen, the wind off the lakedamn near butterflies on us.Ice cubes crack in her glass.••••

2. E.G.H., grandfather

Butts his cane at my door,smoking his pipe already.I let him in. Thank you, sir, he saysin I don't know what accent. No thank you,sir, when I offer him food. He's thickerthan I imagine, whiter through the beard.The sun is a warm one today. He takes a rumin a hand stronger than mine and tellsa story. I was 45 by the time I got to Saskatchewanby train, with three children, in winter (froze mywhiskers off getting to the farm, needed help),five more children in the next twelve years,good years except for the last ones.

Today's light begins darkand finds surface, one linepushing the one Woolf seesthrough my polka-dot curtains,a torrent of leaves lit or shadowed.I slip a cup of tea to her seizing mind.

The party turns, she's fixedat the eyes to a tremorI must cross, she says,tightening her wrap. The wind blowsthis room of her long skirts.

Later I spot herdown by the beach hucking stones.••••

4. Jack Kerouac, writer

Digs what roads do, wheelsa '54 Chev right up to the cabin,grabs his smokes, heads in.Almost sundown when he shows up.Over there, pointing to it.

Talk about quiet - he parks himselfby the window and darkens, looking out, in his flannelshirt (sleeves rolled up, been bittenout there, I see) and jeans,sneakers. Talk turns to loneliness.We talk, he's lonely, downing winesoaking from a fringe of clouds,sadder than ever, then Yeah,he says. Yeah! By God he's writinghis "Sundown Sutra" on the backof his pack of Luckies he tossesmy way as he leaves. It begins:that fever through the eyes today was light.••••

I'm skunked in minutes. He worksthe cards as if dealing for a front-endloader tractor. I'd pray but what gooddoes that do when the cardshave nothing to say.

Saw a doe and two fawns,wish I'd seen them sooner.Right out there, he pointswith one hand, slaps downa double run of three with the other,fifteen-four and eight's a dozen.By the way, they were mule deer,not whitetails, he says. I'm busycounting my hand, pair of queens is all.

Going to be cool in Reginatomorrow, plus 14. Whateveryou need to know, B. can tell,lay it all out for you, open itwith his jackknife if need be,while he lays down his cardsand buries you.••••

6. Ella Fitzgerald, singer

Ella's a listener, big fanof breeze or reeds brighterby the word. She picks upswing in no time, greets warmlythe room she just now enteredas if time cut a record.Sure, I'll try the rye, she says, yes, I'll trythe rye and scatters her laughin a song that never workeduntil she sang it.

She goes bymoon but maybe the moon is wrong,the moon is wrong,the moon is, a chorusa calmboat and should lightning strike - (snap)God forbid but should lightningstrike - that'll be Ellaloose with her band.••••

Kroetsch is to blame for today's light,which splinters and flares for his arrivalin his horsefly tractor, his bucking dock.Twelve hours earlier, a football moonscored behind a blade of spruce top.I'm writing poems, he says. I love it.

Halfway through his beer he recallswith a laugh he'd seen a man swimmingin marsh-like conditions, windblowing in the swimmer's mouth.Must have been a farm kid,thinks he's found the Riviera.

Lightly clouded day after solstice,twenty degrees in wind and blueand we're indoorsfar from the trembling,with music on. No mosquitoesin here, he says. It's good to justsit for a while.••••

Okay, Decay

Mud-rich, a dragonfly daddylousy with breeze, Stan Still could bebreathing, the way Emma's lake fillsand empties. He could catch and eat the quiet things, give his body their air.

He could spark his birdsong motor,preen and eat till the stars come home.He could dissolve to sand, come backas current pressing the bottom of a feel-good canoe, could come back heard.

Stan and the red bunchberries paceeach other's sight path. He could fakepetals, could stir or carry clouddebris, could run for blue, could tell by shadows what tomorrow's sky will be.

If rain will pick up so will Stan.He could draw himself in rainstrokesif he wanted to or sleep, hecould sleep, o how lovely the sleep sensation, nothing but natural cause.

AFTERWORDS

1. Dear Stan,

I see it's almost over.You've put your mind on for the last time, have you?

I've never told you this - you remind meof that Canadian soldier at Fish Creek,of that visual man, of the manfrom Saskatchewan, of Spike (the guynamed after a spike I found on the CNRmainline at Muenster), of Bob Senior (goingway back) married to Phoebe, and their son,Bob Senior Jr., of Henry, the bald kid,of every time I used the word I.

Well, pretty soon it's time to lay downyour last word. Any idea what it will be?I'm guessing not light or windor breath, which are more likefirst words, not hand or tongue or love(which goes without saying), or the tag endof some story. Depends on the time of dayand where you are, I suppose. You'll walk,then come back, take a look (you would saygive a look) out the nearest window,see where you are in the line and letit go.

As ever,G.••••

2. Dear Stan,

Better the long way home, than home, John Ashberywrites. Well, anything I find in a bookI could give to you. Certain fears, regrets, my ownhistories, whatever I'd done that day - all yours,my man, my pretty good man.Like today when I want to writecougar in the underpass and have youmake something of it (may I suggesta song?). Or the time I got a letterbut you were the one to read it and saywhat it means. I used to sayyou let me do anything in writing.I pretended that was true, was it? Was Ifooling with myself or just fooling? The wayI answer is to remember that people I love,love you. They think it's a little weird,but they're with you, maybe even right now,swinging left with every line (at first I wroteloin, the kind of thing you'd do orclaim to have done). If this bookgets published I might have to rig upa costume, disguise my voice, sign with a singleletter that might be me.

As ever,G.••••

3. Dear Stan,

Just about running out of sky or wordsthat end that way, dusky for one,risky for another. But why fool aroundshoving pages in an evening book.Pretty soon the paths turn cool, minus oneovernight. (Put your overnight on, Stan buddy.See what happens in the trees when you're notwatching.) There's a woman next door,an Aussie, Suzie, asking about you,wondering - which I told her is a wordyou use - she's wondering, Stan,what you do when you're not onthe page, so to speak. Would you go forher accent? Take her pictures?Tell her how to loon? She gave meher card. Turns out she thinks there's not enoughvisible art, I told her about your idea (whichI pretended was mine) called "My DeadBody," a series of installations aroundthe Banff Centre of a life-size fabric body,yours, draped over recycling bins,the dock and so on. Yeah, she said,the way Aussies say it, yeah,that would be all right.

I can see the lake from here.It's a good night.

As ever,G.••••

4. Dear Stan,

I wish the Kerouac thing went further.I'd like to have said more, but he didn't.

I see a lot of Kerouac in you - or is itthe other way around? - the two of youriding in a Dodge or that '54 Chevsomeone else drives. High times,a public incident or two nobodyremembers but you. Sure enough,ten years later you write a book(the kind of thing you'd been heading tofor years) and the book hitsat the right time, Zeitgeist-wise,and you're the hero, even thoughyou rode in the passenger seat.

The rest of it is unhappy. You die.It rains at the cemetery in Lowell, Mass.Corso and Ginsberg show up,a photographer from Rolling Stone.It's cold, you're cold, we're all cold.

I might rent a Chev and driveto Massachusetts this fall.

As ever,G.

Click here to read the text as it appears in the July 2011 issue of Air Canada's enRoute Magazine.